


Intertwined

by Epi_girl



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, I Don't Have An Explanation, Post Duel, Regret, Retrospective Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:19:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epi_girl/pseuds/Epi_girl
Summary: He fired his gun once.That one gunshot is what his legacy becomes.





	Intertwined

_WAIT!_

 

The bullet strikes Hamilton right between his ribs, and he collapses to his knees, blood spilling ugly and rusty red from the wound, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he watches it pour through his fingers, staining his waistcoat. _He always was concerned with appearances_.

The moment seems to freeze as he looks up at Burr, dark eyes wide and disbelieving. And he almost finds himself apologizing, apologizing when Hamilton brought this duel, this danger, Burr's anger, upon himself. The blame is on him, really, even if he knows the world will pin this all on someone else. _Himself_. And the tension snaps, but he still tries to move towards the man kneeling on the dew-moistened soil of Weehawken, his body quickly becoming obscured by the doctor and Pendleton, but Van Ness holds him back. Burr barely has the strength to resist, trembling in his black garments.

When he looks back up, Hamilton is gone, and the boat is already rowing away.

Burr gets a drink.

-*-*-*-

He thinks back to the duel sometimes. How it ended. Hamilton laying still and peaceful in the boat as the world moved frantically around him. Calm and self assured, in his own little world. Confident as he always was. Funny, how everyone had to keep up with him, even as life slowly drained from his still bleeding body.

Funny.

No one else seems to think it's funny.

That's somehow funnier.

-*-*-*-

He hears rumours that both Angelica and Eliza were at Hamilton's side when the last threads of life were pulled away from him. _When he died, Burr, no need to sugarcoat what happened with flowery language._

_Isn't that what Hamilton did, in starting all this?_

It must have hurt, he thinks. Must have been painful, for Elizabeth, Eliza, to see her husband fade away right before her very eyes. To see the man she loved, who she saw grow and change and rise and fall and make a mistake so horrible that he lost the trust of one of the most caring and loving people that anyone could ever meet. To see the man who wrote her love letters on the battlefield, who (mostly) gave up his tomcat-like ways for her, _die_. And painful, for Angelica, who never got to love him as she wished to.

Sometimes, Burr wants to apologize. To simply say 'sorry' for  tearing a father, a husband, away from the Hamilton family. But every time he wants to, he finds himself pacing outside the gates of there estate, unable to force himself to walk up to that door and meet the scorn that he will undeniably face if he ever appears on their front step. It's not that he can blame them. It's not that he's uncertain what will happen if he were to visit. Burr just feels that saying sorry would justify everything that Hamilton did to bring his wrath, to bring the duel, upon himself.

But sometimes, as he walks back and forth, staring at the harder just along the walkway, he'll see Eliza. She looks tired now, but no less kind or strong or clever. She has dealt with the loss incredibly well. Eliza Hamilton, Schuyler, by any name, she doesn't get enough credit for her strength of character.

People can call Hamilton fiery and passionate all they want. Eliza is the one who burns brightest.

-*-*-*-

Does he regret the duel?

Burr can't answer that. No matter who asks it, because he isn't sure himself.

-*-*-*-

He's always been the type to simmer slowly, but never take action on his negative emotions.

Somehow, Hamilton managed to make him boil over, time and time again.

-*-*-*-

When he pulled the trigger, everything changed.

Aaron Burr's entire story, who he was to the world, all he is now is the man who shot ( _killed_ ) Alexander Hamilton.

Not the prodigy of Princeton college, the young, ambitious boy who sped through there in only two years, a fire in his souls and confidence in the way he walked. Not a lawyer, succinct, persuasive and clever. Not even the Vice-President of the United States.

Just a murderer.

He is the villain in Hamilton's history. The thought makes him laugh, albeit bitterly, but it's laughter, something he hasn't felt since the duel. It makes him laugh, that even in death, he is never free of Alexander Hamilton.

He always did want the last word.

-*-*-*-

It wasn't even a good drink.

-*-*-*-

There is a numbness now, settled deep within his soul. A type of numbness that can only be brought by killing someone close to you.

A numbness that you only feel when everyone who loves you has died.

His daughter, wonderful, clever Theodosia is lost at sea. Forever gone, having vanished in the wide expanse of water, dark and blue and dangerous, buried under the waves. It doesn't show, but her loss, losing _her_ , is what makes him snap. It breaks him, but not as much as he expected it to.

Maybe... maybe he was already broken.

-*-*-*-

People called him emotionless before.

It's somewhat true, now.

-*-*-*-

The memory, the _scorn_ for what he's done begins to fade with the lives of Hamilton's friends, old and new. The glares, the whispers people think he can't hear, they become less prominent, less obvious, but no less painful when they do happen.

Pain. It feels dull now.

Apparently it shows in his eyes. Funny. He never used to show anything like that.

He only knows this because Angelica remarks upon it the last time he sees her. It's odd, to compare the pinched, tired figure in green to the vibrant, confident young woman in a pink satin dress, who so easily rejected his (admittedly, awful) advances so easily all those years back, her sisters at her side, just as elegant and bright. The woman in front of him is no less distinguished, no less intimidating, no less intelligent, but she is a far cry from the girl who spat words about equality, Thomas Paine, and   _work!_ back in his face after a few minutes of flirting and comments on her clothes.

He never expected to speak with her again. Angelica's sharp tongue is almost a comfort.

He never expected the last words he'd hear from her to be _smile_ _more_.

-*-*-*-

 _Legacy, legacy, legacy...._ what _is a legacy?_

Burr doesn't know what it was for Hamilton, but for him, it is the bullet that struck a Nevisian immigrant between the ribs.

-*-*-*-

He always was a terrible shot.

-*-*-*-

Raspy breaths and fear are all Burr knows anymore, as he lays there, bedridden and useless.

The uselessness, the fact that he can no longer _do_ anything, is the worst part. No matter what anyone (and by anyone, he means Hamilton, but it's easier not to say that) said about him, he couldn't stand still. He was patient, yes, but not sated. Never sated. That was where he and Alexander-- _Hamilton_ , calling him that brought back too many  memories of a time before the duel, were similar.

He laughs bitterly, the sound painful as it tears from his chest. He was always trying to match Hamilton. That was his downfall.

Then again, wasn't acting like himself Hamilton's downfall too?

-*-*-*-

Burr runs out of time, eventually. But it runs out much too slow, and he finds himself thinking that maybe he should have been the one to die all those years ago on Weehawken. Hamilton certainly could have done much more with these decades worth of time. The world wouldn't let him use it, anyway. Maybe Hamilton would be more successful, he always was more successful, no matter what he did. He climbed to the top, and couldn't let Burr have one small victory.

Maybe it would have been nice if Hamilton was the villain in _his_ history.

But that's a hopeless dream.

-*-*-*-

Burr finally has an answer.

Yes, he does.

-*-*-*-

His eyes fall shut, his heart stops beating, and no one is at his side when he dies.

-*-*-*-

Hamilton- Alexander now, _Alexander_ , is leaning over him when he wakes. 

He's no longer that tired, near ruined figure he remembers so vividly from Weehawken, that fateful morning by the Hudson. Not the man who shook and watched as his own blood spilled from his chest and a friend, or a past friend, stood and watched silently as the bullet Burr had fired slowly killed him.

No, the years of hatred and pain have been wiped away, and Alexander is once again that bright, young boy with ambitions that he remembers from the streets of New York in 1776, the one who yelled his name through a crowd and somehow managed to become well liked by everyone in a matter of days.

Aaron laughs. A real laugh.

He'd forgotten how happiness really felt. Forgotten it, and let his  entire self become bitterness and a hatred from the past.

-*-*-*-

Hamilton and Burr.

Aaron and Alex.

Hero and Villain.

 

Inextricably linked. Their stories will be forever intertwined.

 

And for once... maybe they're okay with that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So there we go!
> 
> I really love Aaron Burr, (as you can tell by literally all my Hamilton stories focusing on him haha) and I wanted to write something based on the line "Now I'm the villain in your history". So this happened! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and Kudos are much appreciated.


End file.
